


All the mirrors of all the worlds

by cribbins



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: A Major Major Grant Problem, AUs, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Many-worlds theory, Poop poop it's the hot mess express, Sad Regency Boyfriends, all the aus, the John Childermass situation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-08 04:56:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4291527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cribbins/pseuds/cribbins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It is quite fascinating, you know, when one takes the time to think about it. Did you ever wonder what direction your life would ever take if you were to chuse differently, or if fate intervened? Did you ever wonder what life you could have lived, if this chance encounter had not occurred, or if you made a decision to go to this party, rather than that ball? But perhaps these are bad examples…”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sidewise

_"I do not know how it will end with you and Norrell, but tell you what I'll do. You fail and Norrell wins, I shall leave his service. I'll take up your cause and then there will still be two magicians in England. Two opinions upon magic."_

 

In the year previous, the ancient and infamous institution of Bethlem Royal Hospital had relocated from rather grand but, unfortunately, sinking premises in Moorfields to a smart and well appointed new building south of the Thames. This move was largely as an attempt to escape the ongoing physical decay of the hospital, its cracking walls and its slow disappearance into its own foundations[1].

 

There were some alterations to the organisation of the hospital within the new building - for it now included a separate wing for those who were considered by the Crown to be criminally disordered; too mad to be reasonably punished for their crimes by death, yet too dangerous to be kept with the melancholy, feeble and bewildered that made up the majority of Bedlam's population. It was this particular wing that John Childermass would visit upon a Tuesday afternoon, carrying with him a meat pie wrapped in brown paper.

 

He feared that Jonathan Strange was not being fed to quite the expected standards, and would upon these visits wait patiently to ensure that Strange ate the proffered pie, while Childermass sat in the little cell with him telling him the news of London, and how his campaign against Mr Norrell's latest restrictions on English magic progressed.

 

However, on this day Childermass had not seen Strange for a fortnight. He had continued to be diligent in his visits but had been turned away Tuesday last by a doctor who had informed him that Strange had made a successful attempt at escape and had been only been apprehended the previous morning. Thus, he was in no fit state to receive guests upon that moment.

 

Childermass was not without contacts and influence, and had immediately set about to both restore access to Jonathan Strange and to find the full particulars of Strange's supposed escape attempt. As to his first aim, it had taken pressure from Lord Wellington himself to bring about the reinstatement of visiting privileges to Strange, on Childermass's bequest[2]. However, in his second aim, he found that tracking down witnesses proved not to be so arduous as he had feared, as Strange had created quite a scene. He had been cornered in Ball Court, off Cornhill, dressed in a ragged outfit that nobody had seen upon him before, and a full shock of hair standing out from his head, as if it were surprized as anybody else to find that it had grown back.

 

Strange had appeared to be in a state of great agitation, and when confronted with the London guards reacted in a most ungentlemanly fashion, both letting fly a stream of curses that would have more befitted a common sailor than a gentleman and raising up the paving stones of Ball Court to block the narrow alley off, impeding the guards' progress and causing not inconsiderable damage to the surrounding architecture.

 

It was considered fortunate then that a dragoon, having heard the commotion from his luncheon at Simpson's Tavern, and while Strange was distracted with his re-landscaping of a warrenous and ancient part of London, had come about behind Strange and dealt him a blow around the back of the head with a sturdy bottle of stout.

 

Rendered insensible, Strange had been removed to Bedlam and placed back in his usual lodgings.

 

None of the staff had devised how Strange had made his escape in the first instance, though they were sure some sort of magic was involved. It was observed that hands seemed to be important to the practical application of magic, and that Mr Strange's hands shewed the exertions of this in their tremors. Therefore it was considered important that the hands should not be at liberty to perform any such acts, both for the sake of Mr Strange and the surrounding area, and they determined to put upon Mr Strange the straight-waistcoat for the foreseeable future.

 

It was in this state that Childermass found Jonathan Strange, leant up against the wall of his room, arms crossed in front of him in the straight-waistcoat, head once again freshly shorn[3].

 

Strange smiled at Childermass, though it was a smile designed more to show displeasure than happiness, that is, it was somewhat rueful. "I had wondered who my first visitor would be, though I should have supposed it would have been you." Strange attempted to prop himself further up the wall and sit a little straighter.

 

Without ceremony, Childermass dropped the pie onto the floor and walked towards Strange. "Bloody idiot," he said by way of greeting, "what have you got yourself into?" Strange blinked in surprize at this and did not answer, but Childermass did not let himself react, instead walking towards Strange and putting a hand on his shoulder. "Lean forward, let me get this off you."

 

After a delay of a couple of seconds where Strange comprehended what was being asked of him, he leant forwards and allowed Childermass to reach the straps securing the straight-waistcoat at his back. Strange craned his head to see what Childermass was about, involuntarily turning his back away from Childermass's reach. "Jonathan stop; hold still," Childermass scolded, not unkindly, but at these words Strange went quite motionless. It took a few more moments for Childermass to undo the elaborate entrapments at the back of the waistcoat, but it was soon being shrugged off from Strange's shoulders. Childermass threw the garment across the room with an air of disgust, then picked up the pie and handed it to Strange. "Eat."

 

Strange watched Childermass warily but tore off a section of the pie and set about it in earnest.  Childermass for his part leant against the opposite wall and considered Strange with the same guarded expression. Strange was looking decidedly more gaunt than he had even the fortnight previously. Childermass supposed that this made a certain amount of sense. The staff appeared to be frightened of coming anywhere near Strange’s room, lest they found themselves come under an enchantment.

 

“What made you run?” Asked Childermass, eventually, “not that I could truly blame you for wanting to be quit of this place.” He looked around him at the gently sloping ceiling, the bare boarded floor, the cot bed that he had yet to see Strange ever actually use.

 

“I am not,” answered Strange, “who you suppose me to be.”

 

“I am sorry, sir?” Childermass was not to be fully blamed for his confusion, both due to the startling nature of the statement, and the fact that Strange had said it around a not inconsiderable mouthful of pie.

 

Strange tried once more, placing the pie aside and clasping his hands in front of him, resting his arms upon his knees. He held his hands with a fierce grip, as if attempting to overpower their unintentional shaking. “I am Jonathan Strange, sir, but I am not the same Jonathan Strange whom you know, and whom you suppose me to be. I am afraid I am a different Jonathan Strange entirely, and here quite by accident.”

 

“Indeed,” answered Childermass, with a face as still and unreadable as a statue. He pulled away from his slouch against the wall and took a few paces towards Strange, who regarded him coolly from the floor. “And which Jonathan Strange would you be then, if not the Jonathan Strange I know?”

 

“It is quite fascinating, you know, when one takes the time to think about it. Did you ever wonder what direction your life would ever take if you were to chuse differently, or if fate intervened? Did you ever wonder who you would have become if a chance encounter had not occurred, or if you made a decision to go to this party, rather than that ball? But perhaps these are bad examples…”

 

“It is an interesting proposition.” Childermass chose at this point to sit beside Strange, his back against the wall. “But I don't follow where you lead with it.”

 

“These all exist. All of these worlds.” Strange held Childermass’ gaze, entirely sincere yet all at the same time quite mad. “Every world that could ever have happened, it exists, behind the mirrors, beyond the Kings’ Roads. I have been journeying through them.” Strange gave Childermass a small smile, a shadow of its former self upon his strained and unshaved face. “In this world you call me Jonathan. Are we so familiar?”

 

Childermass collected himself from this sudden and unexpected declaration, and coughed to clear his throat. “Been through much, you and I.”

 

Strange nodded, as if he suspected as much, but did not remember. “And do I call you John?”

 

“You've been known to, yes.”

 

“John,” said Strange, as if he was trying out the shape of it. “I have been to worlds where we are bitter rivals, deadly enemies. It must be said that this is mostly due to my own fault in the majority of these cases. I've learnt a great many things about myself, none of them terribly flattering.”

 

“And what would bring you to this particular world, sir, of all the worlds that you could have visited?” Childermass looked about him, meaning to take the room in with an ironical expression.

 

Jonathan Strange was one of those unfortunate Englishmen that could not tell of personal matters, private sorrows, without an embarrassed smile springing unbidden to his face. The worse the sorrow, the more of a grimace it became. “I fear I have become quite lost.”

 

Childermass nodded at this. He crossed his arms in front of him and looked at Strange, whose gaze sought out something from Childermass.

 

"Please, you must believe this. Look at me and tell me I'm not speaking the truth." Strange's expression was open, and to Childermass' dismay it beseeched him; the odd, uncomfortable smile still twitching at the corners of his mouth. "I must be out of here. I do not belong. And Arabella, _my_ Arabella - I believe she may be saved."

 

Childermass was used to Strange raving, but these declarations were entirely new refrains of an admittedly familiar theme that Strange was known to play upon. However the inclusion of Mrs Strange made them take on a terrible kind of logic. Having never quite come to terms with the plain facts that his wife had been dead for the better part of four months, beyond his help and reach, Childermass could see how he had would have come to believe, or rather wish to believe, this odd tale. "I must return, or who will there be to do it?" Strange asked.

 

Childermass shifted, looked down to his crossed arms and back at Strange. "It is not that I do not see the honesty in your face, sir. I see that. But - I am afraid I do not see any reason in it." He said this with as much gentleness as he could muster within his nature.

 

It was a disquieting thing to watch the hope that had previously animated Strange's expression quite fall away. Indeed his face seemed to sag with the loss of it, all of a sudden making him look older than his seven and thirty years. His eyes cast down and he began to nod, or rather, his head started to make a rapid down motion, though Childermass was not sure if Strange was aware of this or not. "You do not believe me."

 

Childermass took on a conciliatory tone. "I believe you _think_ it true, but..."

 

Strange stood, suddenly. "I am not..." He began, pacing about the small room. "I do not belong here. And I mean to leave, sir, with your help or no." He whirled about with such an expression of demented ferocity that even Childermass found himself hesitating mid-stand. He was not a easily unsettled man, but perhaps he knew a little of what to expect next.

 

The light, as he predicted, dimmed in the most unnatural fashion. The bricks of the wall started to make the small, grinding noises of vibration; the floorboards creaked, the wooden eaves groaned. Strange's hands were clenched in fists at his sides and shook with the effort. The cries and laughs and groans and wails of patients which made up the pervasive noise of Bethlem Royal Hospital fell quite silent around them.

 

"What do you mean to do, sir?" Childermass cried over the noise of the stones and the wood agitating and trembling all about them. "Tear the building down around our ears?" He made a few paces towards Strange.

 

"I will not..." Strange began, but then seeing Childermass, he hesitated. Some of the anger left his expression.

 

Childermass took his opportunity as it presented itself, closed the space between them. Strange made to push him away, yet Childermass managed to take Strange by the wrists, holding them fast. "Jonathan!" He shouted above the din, for he knew that this had a particular effectiveness in catching the magician's attention when all else would not. Strange startled, and the dense atmosphere of magic about them began to dissipate. The bricks and floors and eaves ceased their trembling and everything settled to as it was. For a moment, the hospital was eerily and most unnaturally silent, before the cacophony of the other inmates began again in earnest all around them.

 

"Please. John," said Strange once again in a quiet voice. Childermass feared to let go of his wrists, lest this was all that was holding Strange upright at the moment. He looked quite grey.

 

They heard the footfalls of the approaching wardens and staff, and aware that their visit was to reach an abrupt end, he said "I'll return as soon as I am able. I am making enquiries on your behalf to remove you from here."

 

"Oh," said Strange in the same, quiet voice.

 

"I can promise nothing", Childermass counselled. "I do not know what good I can do. But I promise I shall try - good enough?"

 

Strange nodded. "Yes. Indeed."

 

The door to Strange's little room - cell - jangled with a key in the lock. "And for your part, promise that you will not destroy the whole bloody building in my absence?"

 

"Yes, I imagine..." Strange began, but was quite cut off by the sudden arrival of several large and excitable wardens who, preoccupied with Strange, did not have the time to notice Childermass slipping into the shadows of the room and making a quiet exit through the open door.

 

* * *

 

[1] It was also hoped to have a beneficial effect on the hospital's rather more difficult issue of moral decay, as witnessed and attested to by various former patients who had the fortune to escape its tender ministrations with enough wits to report back on the conditions within.

 

The move to the new building in St George's Fields, just off the Lambeth Road, unfortunately did little to improve the circumstances of the patients. Although the rooms were new and much improved, the staff were not, and continued in the same manner as they had always done, indeed, seeming to stubbornly refuse to let the better surroundings have any kind of lasting improvement on their conduct or temperament.

 

* * *

 

[2] Thus started a long, rather unlikely, but not unfruitful correspondence between Lord Wellington and John Childermass that would last for many years to come. They found that they were men of a similar temperament, much to the surprize of both of them.

 

* * *

 

[3] Recent medical advances included the shaving of the lunatic's head, in order to better cool the patient's overheated brain. Indeed, it was considered that Strange's particularly wild and dense hair had caused a considerable amount of the problem, a supposition that was only reinforced by the hair's rogue reappearance upon Strange's escape.


	2. "Why not come and be contrary with me?"

_"I do not know how it will end with you and Norrell. I have asked my cards to tell me, but the answer seems to blow this way and that. What lies ahead is too complex for the cards to explain clearly and I cannot find the right question to ask them."_

 

"How did I come to be here?"

 

Childermass' visit with Strange on the following Tuesday began in an abrupt fashion, though he had not very much been expecting pleasantries.

 

"You don't remember." Childermass asked.

 

Strange shook his head, irritated. He was pacing the floor. "It happened to a different man, of course I do not remember."

 

"Ah, but you said 'how did _I_ come to be here,'" Childermass took a few steps into the room, and the door was shut firmly behind him, "...which, if you were talking of a different man, is a queer way of expressing it."

 

Strange stopt and shot Childermass a glowering look. "You are going to argue the semantics with me, sir? It is a confusing enough situation as it is."

 

"Merely an observation, I meant no offence." He looked about the cell. Ivy had started to grow in through the cracks in the windows and were blocking out the pale light. "You have been gardening," he said.

 

Strange turned to look at the window. "I wanted to look on something green. They don't let me out this room."

 

"I am working upon it. I'm petitioning to have you moved to Starecross this week. I've found some sympathetic ears in Parliament. Mr Norrell doesn't like it, of course. I believe he is vexed at the idea of you and Mr Segundus having a meeting of minds." Childermass removed his hat and threw it upon the cot bed, it being the only available option other than the floor.

 

Strange looked at Childermass. "Norrell wants me in here."

 

"He believes it," here Childermass paused, "to be for your betterment."

 

A cold, cheerless laugh burst from Strange. "And what a convenience that it effectively removes me as an obstacle. My betterment! Let him come visit me here and he can see how much betterment this place has wrought me!" Strange became quite agitated on this. "What is good for Mr Norrell is good for the world, oh yes."

 

"Calm yourself, sir, or this will be an even shorter visit than the last."

 

Strange came into control of his emotions once more, but breathed rather heavily through his nose at the exertion of swallowing his words. "Damn him," he said, at a quieter pitch. "I did not consent to be here, did I?"

 

Childermass shook his head. "You did not. You were caught on your way to Ashfair. D'you remember any of that?"

 

Strange blinked. "I was returning to Ashfair?"

 

"You would have done much better to have stayed in Italy."

 

At this, Strange craned his head back, looked up to the ceiling and gave a small huff. "There it is." He shook his head from side to side as if marvelling at it.

 

At this Childermass took a few steps forward. "There is what?" He found his way round the back of Strange and started undoing the buckles of the straight-waistcoat, which had been assiduously wrestled back onto him after Childermass' last visit. He imagined that the wardens of the hospital would curse him for this. Good, he thought. If they wanted to cut off his visitations again they would have to take it up with the Duke of Wellington.

 

" _There_ is the choice," said Strange. "There is the point where my history diverges down a different path. Tell me, how did they apprehend me?"

 

Childermass helped Strange shrug out of the straight-waistcoat, and it was discarded. "I apprehended you."

 

Strange looked as if he had been struck. "You..."

 

"The last service I ever performed for Norrell."

 

"...Why?"

 

"I worried what would happen if it were anyone else. I meant to take you to Starecross, but that decision was taken out of my hands. Government wanted you in here, under their own authority."

 

Strange paled. "Because they believe that I killed my wife. So I am to be put here with the other murderers."

 

"It is more than that." Childermass took a step closer to Strange, in case he would be required to catch him if he fell. "You are not just a madman, sir, or a murderer. You are a national crisis."

 

"I am NOT..." but then Strange stopt himself, and took on a softer tone. "I did not kill her."

 

Childermass nodded. "I know it."

 

"Indeed, you are my greatest advocate when you are not my capturer." Strange walked restlessly from one end of the small room to the other. "What are these visits, then? A way to assuage your guilty conscience, Mr Childermass?"

 

"Partly," Childermass conceded and looked at the floor. The straw scattered on the wooden boards was old and needed to be refreshed. "And I need your support now I've taken on your role of being a constant source of annoyance for Norrell."

 

Strange smiled, despite his best intentions. "You did it then. You took my place."

 

"I did."

 

Strange crossed his arms. "In which case my being in here is very much convenient for you as well." He said over his shoulder, back to him.

 

"Oh yes," Childermass snorted, "my life has been nothing but good fortunes since you've been locked up in here. It is a constant source of delight." His voice dript with sarcasm and Strange had enough sense to look a little hesitant. "You lost, sir. I had made a promise to you that I would take your place if such were to arise. I was forced to resign my post at Mr Norrell's side and have become a public figure - a second opinion on magic, as I proposed to you. I have not made myself very popular."

 

"Lascelles must be having a fit." Strange raised an eyebrow.

 

"There are some benefits, I'll admit." Childermass could not stop his smirk. Strange, seeming all of a sudden weary after all his agitated energy, sagged against the wall and slid to the floor. His hands lay prone in his lap, though one of them trembled still. Childermass sat down against the opposite wall. They were tall men, and the room a small one, so their feet would have touched had they not arranged them just so. "Three weeks ago you had known all of this."

 

Strange raised his head as if he could barely stand the weight of it. "A different Jonathan Strange." He tapped the side of his head. "Different memories."

 

Childermass dug the pie wrapped in paper from his greatcoat pocket and threw it to Strange. "Tell me what you do remember then, sir."

 

Strange caught the pie, though it almost struck him in the chest. "Enough of the 'sir', Childermass..." He stopt himself. "...John. You are no longer a servant, and I am clearly no longer much of a gentleman."

 

Childermass pulled his twisted face into a smirk. "You still own more acres of land than I do - _Jonathan_. That is you own many and I own none[1]. So I'd suggest that we are not as equal standing as you presume."

 

"And yet, let us address each other on equal terms." He broke off a section of the pie. "Magician to magician, though one be poor and one be a lunatic." As though a thought had just occurred to him. He looked down at the pie that had been bought for him by Childermass. "Thank you for this."

 

Childermass nodded once, accepting the thanks. "Tell me what you do remember then." He stopt himself before he added 'sir'. A funny thing that it should have become such a natural instinct after eighteen years of service, something that had prickled at him so when he had first started work in Norrell's estate.

 

"I was in Italy, yes?" Childermass nodded once more. "But you say that your Strange returned to Ashfair." Here he fell silent for a time. "He returned for Arabella."

 

"You did. You said you were planning to dig her out of her grave." The thought still had the power to disquiet almost two months gone.

 

Strange had quite forgotten about eating the pie now, and instead worried at it with his hands, snapping off pieces of crust. "That was one of the conditions that the fairy gave me, that I would have to 'have her corpse to hand'". Strange's head lowered again, and he stared off into the corner, though seeing somewhere beyond the room.

 

"That much you remember."

 

"That much is similar. We had both encountered the fairy. We had both heard the conditions. But while your Strange appears to have been more tenacious, I was not. I was rather foolish. I flew into a rage, threw things about, disordered my room. In my despair - I believe I had expected it to be easy, once I had summoned the fairy, and the hard truth was a blow to my..." He thought of the word. "...equilibrium." This gave him a small, tight smile. "I had a tincture, I had bottled the essence of madness, did he tell you that?"

 

"You did."

 

"I drank it all. I'm not sure what I was trying to achieve, apart from a kind of oblivion, I suppose. For a while it worked, and I was quite out of my senses." Strange set the pie aside, having abandoned it as a bad job. "When I awoke, or rather once again became _aware_ , it is difficult to tell, it was to somebody calling my name. It took a few moments of crashing round the room to realise that it was coming from through the mirrors. You see, it was Arabella's voice." Strange looked Childermass in the eye once again; the small smile was more watery now, more unsure.

 

"And you followed it?"

 

"I did."

 

"Fool, what were you thinking?"

 

"I did not exactly have my sharpest wits about me. For a moment I believed that it may have been the fairy, that he had found a way...but I passed through the mirror, into the King's Roads, and there I found..." He shook his head. "...nothing. I called, for a time, I walked along the roads in vain. When the voice called again it seemed to be coming from across the landscape, beyond the horizon, not from anywhere on the roads themselves..." Here, Strange looked rather sheepish.

 

"You mean to tell me that you left the roads, and ventured out into uncharted Fairie, following the voice of your dead wife?"

 

"Yes it sounds rather stupid, doesn't it? I was quite wild, at the time. I do not know how long I walked. The land was desolate. The only feature was a high hill, with a dark tower atop it [2]. It was as good as anything, I supposed. So I walked towards that. And that it where I found the mirrors."  Strange's expression was searching. "Does any of this make sense?"

 

Childermass shrugged. "It makes as much sense as anything. I've seen unexplainable things on the King's Roads."

 

This made something in Strange become more animated, a spark that sprang to life. "You've been there? What were your impressions? What did you see on the roads?"

 

"We stray off the subject, sir." Strange gave him a look, and he sighed. "... _Jonathan_. You spoke of the mirrors."

 

"Yes, quite, the mirrors. The tower, this tower I had found - nothing but huge, empty rooms filled with mirrors, standing, lining the walls, laying upon the floor as if dropt and abandoned there. Rooms so large and gloomy I could not see the ceilings. The building had something of the Tower of London about it, or John Uskglass' New Castle; that rough, ancient feel. The mirrors were of all sizes, styles, ages. I saw myself reflected many times over, and I seemed to spy subtle differences in each reflection of myself I saw. There were thousands of myself, every direction I looked, and I could see, or I could feel, that they were all...different. Not different versions of me, you understand, but different people. You follow me?" He stopt again to make sure that Childermass was still with him. In truth Childermass was quite confused about several matters, but had managed to just about keep up with Strange's delerious tale, so he nodded that he was to continue.

 

"One of these people, one of these Stranges, was looking at me, which was not so odd in itself, as I was looking at myself, as one does with mirrors. But this one looked at me when I was not looking at him, quite out of accord with the usual habit of reflections. I could feel his eyes on the side of my face. I turned to face him, and, yes, had the distinct impression that he was looking _at_ me, through the mirror. I walked up to this particular mirror. I could see the reflection of myself, well-dressed with an imperious expression. I was somewhat out of my wits but I knew enough to know I was not well dressed at the time, and if I was wearing an imperious expression on my own face then, well, it was quite without cause. I reached up to touch the surface of the mirror. As did my reflection - or, no, our fingertips touched - either side of the mirror. And then." Strange shrugged his shoulders.

 

"And then?"

 

"I believed we switched places; I took his place, behind the mirror, in his world."

 

"And that is when you ended here."

 

"No, quite a different place, entirely. But it was the start of my journey here."

 

Neither of them had paid attention to the time, and it was only the footsteps with the clink of keys, heard over the general cacophony of Bedlam, that their visitation was coming to an end. Childermass looked at the door, then back to Strange. "Before I leave, where was this different place you went?"

 

Strange leant his head back against the wall and gave Childermass an amused look. "Do you remember the other half of the bargain that we made? That if I win, and Norrell loses, then you would take up against me?"

 

At this, the key rang against the lock of the door.

 

* * *

[1] Jonathan Strange was indeed still in possession of a considerable estate, and it had not yet been forfeited to the crown, despite his disgrace, incarceration and lack of heirs. It had been placed under the temporary guardianship of Mr Segundus, who was widely considered to be the most honest and reliable of gentlemen, and as such had been made rather overwhelmed and unhappy by the responsibility.

 

* * *

 

[2] Childermass would have liked to have interjected at this point, to ask more details about the tower, to remove his Cards of Marseilles from one of his pockets and ask for a comparison, to ask if Strange remembered the germane extract of the Raven King's prophecy that referred to a tower, yet he did none of those things. It seemed important, yet he conflicted with himself over adding weight to what very probably were the ravings of an unstable mind.

 


	3. Revelations of Thirty-Six Other Worlds

It was the unfortunate custom of mirrors to spit one out rather unceremoniously into a room [1]. Occasionally Strange was able to judge the speed and direction of how he passed through, and thus make a grand entrance. This, however, was not one of those times. He landed in an ungainly heap upon a Turkish carpet that looked, upon first glance and rather close up, oddly familiar.

 

One of the reasons he had been so taken off guard is that passing through mirrors was supposed to require some kind of intent on the part of the traveller. Instead this had felt as if he had been grabbed by the fingertips which had made contact with the mirror and _yanked_.

 

It took a few moments for the familiarity of the room to take form into a realisation that he was lying in his own study in Soho Square, surrounded by his own things. Candles were lit, and there was a cheerful fire in the grate. He had left his house shut up when he left for the continent, but here it was looking quite inhabited. He had half a mind to go marching through the house and find whatever scoundrel it was who was obviously squatting here; though he had left England in somewhat dubious circumstances his property was still his own.  

 

And yet, he stopt himself, he was not supposed to even be in England. And he had not yet found the source of that voice from the other side of the mirror. This would have to wait. He would return to London, he compromised, once he was done.

 

He stood, gingerly, and walked to the mirror, to see if the different Strange was now on the other side of the glass. He saw nobody but himself. He pressed his fingertips to the glass to pass through, back to the dark tower. This was not a spoken spell, but more of an active will to pass through, rather one of those things that it was impossible to explain to somebody how one did it, but managed once is not forgotten. But nothing happened. The mirror did nothing, and sat on the wall, impassive and uncaring of his predicament. White rings of condensation formed on the glass about his fingertips and he stayed stubbornly rooted to the spot.

 

"Come on, now." He pressed his whole hand to the glass, and could distinctly note the sensation of willing himself through, yet the mirror did not yield. His reflection merely stared back, looking for a moment so tired and frightened that he startled himself. The mirror, in its haughty silence, mocked both him and his reflection, barring the way between them.

 

"Pay attention!" He slapped his hand hard against the mirror to assert himself. The mirror rattled noisily against the wall in protest, making him sharply aware of his surroundings. He heard a sound from the hallway of someone, his unwanted guest most probably, shifting outside, deliberating upon entering.

 

He pressed his hand to the mirror once more and pushed, trying physical force. He heard the tiny splintering noises of the glass giving out under the pressure; he only pushed harder. A crack rent across the surface of the mirror.

 

Strange looked at two of his reflection staring back at him, both developing the same sense of panic across their faces as he was beginning to feel. If he could merely break through.

 

If the mirror would not give way then perhaps, perhaps he could simply tear it down. He swung a fist at it. The glass shattered under his hand and his reflection split into dozens of fractions, scattered and dilated.

 

This mirror was malevolently and spitefully preventing him from leaving whole. It was splitting him up into smaller and smaller parts...

 

"Sir?"

 

He span about. The person behind the door had apparently let themselves in at the noise of the breaking. Childermass stood before him. Strange blinked, stupidly. It took a moment for Strange to land on what was different about Childermass, until he realised that he was not wearing his usual attire but had changed them for a set of clothes in a more expensive cut. That is, he did not look a servant.

 

"It is you?" Strange asked him.

 

Childermass was looking at Strange's hand, still balled up in a fist and bleeding slightly. "What has happened?"

 

Strange shook his head, and then unfurled and stretched out his hand, to indicate this was the not the matter of importance they should be focussed on. "You are in my house?"

 

Childermass gave him a hard look. "You invited me. Seven o'clock, wasn't it?"

 

"I could not have invited you here; I was in Italy."

 

"You were in the Jamaica Coffee House, Mr Strange, and you invited me here, so we may come to some kind of agreement, away from the public eye?" For a moment, Childermass gave him another look. "You're not well."

 

"I have had an extremely long and rather odd day." Strange pulled a hand through his hair, pulling it away from his face and looked about him. If Childermass were visiting, and he had no reason to suspect he was being false, then who... "Who has been living here?"

 

"This is your house...Sir, would you like me to call one of the servants?"

 

Strange passed the hand over his face in irritation. "I know it is my house - what servants... _Childermass_." The other man had turned away as if to fetch somebody, and Strange had lunged for him, taking him by the arm and spinning him back to face him. "What is this. What has been happening here while I've been abroad?"

 

Childermass' expression became a softer sort of worry, perhaps coming to some kind of understanding (of which Strange dearly wished he would share as he had absolutely no understanding at all and it was beginning to tax at his nerves).

 

"You have been on the King's Roads?" Asked Childermass.

 

Strange let go of Childermass. "I...yes."

 

"For how long, sir?"

 

"It is difficult to say. That is, I was not paying it much mind. I..." It was difficult to think of a manner to relate how he had overimbibed in a tincture of madness and set himself wandering in a rather distracted fashion across unmarked otherlands and had not really ever thought to check on the time. "What is the day?"

 

"The Second of December."

 

"Then - it is yesterday." Unsure of what to do, Strange let out a sharp, strangled laugh, which did nothing to ease the look of disquiet upon Childermass. "That is very unreasonable of it."

 

"Aye." Childermass caught himself. "Indeed."

 

He did not have enough information. Although, he was willing to admit, the more information he gained the more it only muddied the issue. At that moment he felt a rather icy, gripping unsettlement in his stomach.

 

He had drank almost all of the tincture, had he not? But he was certain that he had wandered for long enough that the greater majority of the effects had worn away. Had that been days? Surely the effect of madness would last even more perniciously in fairy lands; in which case it may be even earlier than yesterday. Clearly, time and he had quarrelled. Was this - had he simply crossed beyond a boundary in his mind, and was unable to come back to his wits?

 

"Mr Strange." Childermass was pulling gently on his arm, attempting to guide him out of the room.

 

Strange held his ground, realising he had become lost within himself - a regrettable habit he seemed to have picked up - he roused himself. "You said we had met earlier today, in the coffee house?"

 

"Do you remember?"

 

Strange shook his head, nonplussed. "You said you were here to come to some arrangement. That we were bargaining?"

 

"Quarrelling would be a more fitting name for it."

 

"We quarrelled?"

 

"Rarely take the time to do anything else these days."

 

This perplexed Strange, who had always found Childermass a rather sensible and amusing character. "What about? Norrell?"

 

Childermass frowned. "About magic, sir." He stopt to consider it. "Though I suppose in some philosophical way, Norrell is at the heart of it. Why else would we be here." He searched Strange's face. "I suspect that is not what you meant though."

 

"I do not follow." The confusion was not lifting, and Strange could feel the great weight of it upon him, almost suffocating; he took a moment to close his eyes against it.

 

Childermass let out a sigh. "I do not know how much this will appeal to your humour, but we quarrelled about the King's Roads - Fairie Roads. This is exactly what I was speaking about. You can't just encourage people to go wandering off into Faerie. We don't know what's there, what could happen to them." He stopped momentarily as Strange looked at him with a mixture of confusion and irritation. "Look at you."

 

"I have not told anyone to go into Faerie."

 

"You haven't read your own article in the latest _Famulus_ , then?"

 

Strange wrenched his arm away from Childermass at this and stamped over to his own desk, haphazardly stacked with books, journals, various notes. "There has only been one issue of the Famulus and I assure you...." He swiped a pile of papers aside, meaning to find his copy that he had left sitting abandoned in his study months ago. He did not uncover it. Instead he found he was looking at a book.

 

It had a green cover, embossed in gold with the Raven In Flight. He had not seen this before. He had never received an edition of this book, not in time. He knew what it was. He opened the front cover to find the frontispiece and dedication.

 

He did not know how he felt. Or he felt a great many things all at once, and he did not know how to piece them apart and categorise them. As it was they all rallied together to overwhelm him and he sat heavily in his writing chair, looking at a book that, in all sensibility, should no longer exist.

 

In that moment a rather odd idea began to crystallise.

 

Childermass leant on the desk, bent towards him to fall into his eyeline. He spoke, but at first Strange could not hear his words over the sound of the blood rushing in his own ears, he merely saw the mouth moving.  Strange shook his head. "I don't think I should be here," he said rather thickly.

 

"What." Said Childermass, not unreasonably. This, Strange heard.

 

"The Strange on the other side of the mirror. He was from here. He is the one you are speaking of. I am switched with him, you see?

 

"...No," said Childermass, not unreasonably.

 

"That mirror." Strange pointed accusingly at the broken looking glass on the wall. "I travelled here through that mirror. I saw your Strange on the other side. This is why. He is living a different life." Childermass was rearing back now, looking wary. Strange picked up the book and brandished it. "Where did this book come from?"

 

"Murray..."

 

"This should not exist. It was wiped out by Norrell."

 

"And then reprinted. You are holding a second edition."

 

"When?"

 

"October."

 

"That never happened! This should not _exist_. No...it is - I should not be here." He looked at Childermass. "I am sorry for the confusion. I think - I believe I have the measure of it. I will be leaving now."

 

He stood, then looked at the mirror. "As soon as I know how." He shook his head, and walked out of the room.

 

Childermass followed. Strange strode from room to room, peering into the mirrors. "Where are you..." He lightly touched the glass of each one, then shook his head, dissatisfied, moving on to the next. Childermass stayed on his heels. "Mr Strange, sir!"

 

He passed Mary in the upstairs hallway, who dropt an armful of linens in what could have been a pantomime of shock upon the sight of him. "Sir!" She cried, but Strange saw no reason to prolong her distress, and searched for another mirror, the sooner to depart. "What has happened?..." He could hear her calling behind him as he dived into the blue guest bedroom. It was here that Childermass caught up with him.

 

Strange had the frame of the mirror in a white-knuckled grip, and was staring intently into it, trying to spot something that did not accord with the reflection. He could see Childermass approach from behind, but was still a little taken by surprise when Childermass took him by the shoulder and wrenched him away from the mirror, violently enough that it clattered against the mantelpiece. He was spun and pinned up against the wall, an arm across his chest. "Sir!"

 

"Who are we to each other?" Strange said it all in a rush, and saw panic and confusion now written across Childermass' face to match his own. "Where is Norrell?"

 

Childermass released Strange once it became clear that he would not struggle. He stood close though, crowding in on him. "He is at Hurtfew. He has been at Hurtfew for months."

 

Strange took in again the new clothes, the different air about him. He had thought, hadn't he, that he didn't look a servant. "He is not your master."

 

"No." Childermass shook his head slowly. "Not for some months now."

 

Strange twisted his mouth into an ironical smile, and raised his hand to point at Childermass, "you are the second magician."

 

Childermass' eyebrows rose towards one another in an expression of despairing disbelief. "Is it so hard to believe?"

 

"That I won and Norrell lost? A little."

 

"How so?"

 

A shrug of the shoulders. "I did myself no favours. Norrell has so many friends in government."

 

"After the scandal of your first edition, he had very few friends."

 

Strange gave a small nod. "Except you."

 

"You know I didn't approve. I did not approve of him retiring from public life either. If anyone had taken his place as a second opinion on English magic I would have left it to _them_. It is not my natural place, so much in the spotlight."

 

"But why go against me?"

 

"You are reckless, with yourself and with others. You're arrogant, and too wild. You have the potential to be dangerous." He looked Strange up and down. "I don't know what you've done to yourself but you prove my point better than I ever could've done. Have you had a good look at yourself lately?"

 

Strange gave a chilly laugh. "I have done very little else."

 

With a growl, Childermass pulled Strange and stood him in front of the mirror.

 

They made quite the pair, stood side by side, both dark and ragged, weary and weighed down with knowledge they did not want. In short, they looked every inch the disreputable magicians that people had expected before the arrival of Mr Norrell into general society. He wondered if this was an inevitability that they would all eventually revert to type. He wondered what London made of the two of them, bickering and rowing in fashionable coffee houses upon the subject of Faerie lands.

 

"I did not want this." Said Strange, though unsure if this was meant to be an explanation or an apology.

 

"No, sir." Said Childermass. "Neither did I."

 

He was thinking what on earth he should say - but something walked through his reflection as if it was smoke. He reached out in a panic to touch his own chest, having just seen it dissipate in the mirror, it was only mild reassurance to find he himself was still perfectly solid. Childermass, still holding on to him, stept back with a start, pulling Strange with him. Childermass saw this then. Well.

 

The mirror no longer shewed the blue bedroom. It shewed a dimly-lit, rather ancient looking timbered room, and a version of himself, himself but not himself, leaning forward and peering through the mirror like a short-sighted busy-body through a neighbour's window.

 

Though the room in the reflection was shadowy, Strange could see something dark on the other Strange's face. He thought it may be blood.

 

He did not realise he was walking towards the mirror until Childermass cried out. "Strange!"

 

He hesitated, for a moment, then stept forward. He leant in until level with the other Strange, staring him in the eye. The other Strange seemed quite unhinged. Was this how others saw him?

 

Both Stranges pulled back a fraction. Both Stranges raised their hands. Both Stranges touched the glass.

  
Childermass' final cry to him was shortly and suddenly cut off.

 

* * *

 

 

[1] It was possible that this was an opinion on mirrors that would only ever belong to Jonathan Strange but nevertheless he held it to be true.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONLY ONE FOOTNOTE. Will endeavour to do better next time.


	4. A species of revolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to equestrianstatue and cosmoscorpse for listening to me endlessly bleating about this and giving me most of the good ideas in this chapter (writing is hard guys)

He really should have been expecting that.

 

Nevertheless, Strange lay upon the floor, staring up into the dark, warped roof beams that he had first witnessed on the other side of a mirror. He had been fairly launched into the room, and had landed with all the grace and charm of a dropt rock.

 

A little winded, he recovered from the shock of his rude landing, blinked and looked about him. Though the light was dim, he could see, or rather sense, that he was alone. It was not anywhere he recognised; he appeared to be somewhere entirely new. It was probably too much to ask that he was back to where he ought to be. The furnishings, the quality of the light, the sting of cold - all of these things spoke of England.

 

He stood. He could now see his silver dish sitting atop a table by the window, the leather carry-strap hanging over the edge. There was not much else notable, apart from the smell. It was not the sharp freshness of English winter. There was a strange smell in the air here. He couldn't. Something of gunpowder and magic. A smell - before he could remember what it was it took him so strongly back to Waterloo - that mud-choked courtyard at Hougoumont - that he reeled and staggered into the wall.

 

He felt a heavy rain upon him. A confusion of battle cries sounded from somewhere which made him startle.

 

He covered his face with his hands, waited for the moment to pass.

 

This had happened before, on occasion. He knew that it was not real, just a trick of strained nerves. He knew that it would pass in time, if he waited, quietly. If he stood quietly and did not let himself cry out. His hands trembled where they were pressed against his face and he cursed at them in Spanish, quite unthinkingly, out of habit.[1]

 

He considered, after aching long moments of bewilderment and disorder, once his mind had started to clear somewhat, that the smell may be something that he had only imagined as well. But it was not, it lingered for a long while after the more illusory sights and sounds had left him. Though the air suspect he took a few deep breaths to regain some trace of composure and pushed himself away from the wall. He brushed down the front of his coat, adjusted his cuffs (it did little for his appearance but gave his hands familiar and reassuring distraction to occupy them).

 

He then checked the small, spotted mirror for anything other than the reflection of himself and the surrounding room. He found nothing out of the ordinary. He leant a little closer to the glass, touched it gently with an unsteady hand. “Childermass?” His voice was soft but still sounded intrusive and faintly ridiculous in the oppressive quiet. The mirror did not deign to furnish him with a reply. He coughed, a little awkward, and then bent his head towards the mirror again. “Jonathan?”

 

But the mirror proved to be stubborn, deciding upon its own terms when it would open doorways and when it would stay shut. It seemed that Strange would have no control over the matter at all, and would merely have to wait until such a time as the mirror decided to open up once again.

 

For the meanwhile, he thought he should orient himself a little more, and decided upon looking out of the window to see if he could gain any clue where he was. He pulled aside the lace curtain.

 

What he saw without would not have even made the bottom of a fairly wild and exhaustive list of guesses.

 

He pulled the lace curtain closed.

 

Then, after a brief pause, he tried again. Unhappily, the British Army were still there. A hundred yards or so distant but standing to attention, facing towards the window. Watching him.

 

It was a cobbled street that the room looked out onto, with old, timbered houses overhanging the lane, drunkenly slumped against one another. The street sloped away and curved down a steep hill, and at the bottom of the hill there were the infantry in their red coats stark and bright in the dark winter afternoon. Above them the sky was low-hanging and bruise grey with threatened rain.

 

For a moment - for a second he could have sworn that the sky spoke to him, that it asked him, should I rain? Would you have me rain or no, magician? But then it was gone. It was as blank and dumb as anything else. Or, no - no, it spoke a language that he could no longer hear or understand, that he had not even recognised as language, that he had heard his whole life without the faintest idea of what it was.

 

But he was beginning to grasp that it was there, if only he could listen for it.

 

He remembered this. There was a time, between drinking the bottle with the madness and coming to, where he had assumed that he had been insensible. But he remembered this.

 

The soldiers stood silently to attention at the end of the cobbled street, equally blank faced, equally unfathomable. They seemed to be waiting for something, waiting to see what he would do.

 

There was a shifting in their ranks, a ripple moving forwards from the back, making way for someone walking through. The foremost infantrymen parted, and out came Colonel Colquhoun Grant holding aloft a white flag. He strode up the hill, between the houses which seemed to lean forward and stare down at him inquisitively, beneath the murmuring sky. His pace was purposeful; his face was set and unreadable. After an initial leap in spirits upon recognizing Grant, something about this scene pushed through Strange a nameless, unexplainable dread.

 

He waited to see where Grant was headed. He held on to the hope that he had been waylaid and separated from the army in a previous battle, and he would see Grant march past the house and towards the enemy. Once it became clear that Grant was walking straight towards him he had the brief idea that there was someone in the house with him that Grant was to parley with, that he himself was here as a hostage. But again, no. He knew he was alone in this house.

 

The Strange whom he had seen on the other side of the mirror, the one who belonged here, was he persecuted? Did the British Government send the army to track down and capture magicians? Or were they here on the insistence of Norrell?

 

Grant was close enough now that they could see one another clearly through the window. Grant was holding the white flag out in front of him, letting it lead the way. Strange reached out to lean on the window for a better look. The space between the window and his hand gave a spark and he reared back at the heat of it. His hand and wrist and forearm came over pins and needles and though the hand still trembled he could feel, over all this, the slow tidal ebb and flow of magic between it and the spell. It had attached itself to him like a burr, and leaked further up his arm towards his shoulder.

 

It was a more powerful spell than he would have usually dared. The feel of it though, the particular thrum of it told him that this was his. It crept up round his neck and found its way with hot, spindly fingers inside his head. Not his spell, he realised; but it had been abandoned by its caster, and he was close enough - he would have to do. It shewed him. The wooden beams which made up the fabric of the house, remembering the trees they once were, were asked to protect what lay within. The stones that made the slate of the roof were asked to protect what lay below. The sand that made the glass of the windows was asked to protect what lay behind. And the wood and the stone and the glass all looked up towards the grey low sky which asked him, shall I rain, magician?

 

The door knocked.

 

He opened his eyes. He had not realised he had closed them. He found he was swaying very slightly on the spot.

 

"This is Colonel Colquhoun Grant come to parley on behalf of his Lordship the Duke of Wellington." Grant's voice rang out through the quiet street. Strange held his breath and waited for somebody else to answer him. Nobody did. He closed his eyes and waited another moment. _Please_ , he thought.

 

Very well, said the sky, and began to rain.

 

No that was not what he wanted at all.

 

"Jonathan Strange! I am come here to parley, sir!" Called Grant from outside.

 

Well that rather cleared that up.

 

Surely, though, he could explain? Grant could not be so very against him in this particular world, at least he had trouble imagining Grant as anything other than honourable and decent. He could persuade Grant to listen to him.

 

He asked the door into the house to become a door into the spell. It assented. Strange walked up to it and gave it an experimental poke. There were no sparks this time, no answering burn of magic. He gave the door another prod, just to be sure. Yes, all quite mundane. The bolt ground against its fastenings as Strange pulled it back, before cracking open the heavy-set door a fraction. The smell was stronger on the air outside, it made his stomach clench in sour protest and his hands gripped hard the door handle and frame. He ducked his head for a few heartbeats, and forced down the inconvenient swell of panic somewhere inside of himself. It would not do, not now.

 

Grant looked at him through the gap, his face a familiar combination of worry and impatience such as he had seen many times in the Peninsula, sometimes when he did not realise that Strange could see him from the corner of his eye. Here he was getting both barrels of this expression at point blank range which meant he must have got himself into a very dire situation. He looked over Grant's shoulder at the soldiers at the bottom of the hill, and thought, yes of course he has.

 

Grant seemed to remember himself, and addressed him in a more formal tone. "I am here to parl..."

 

"Yes, yes, I heard you. Come in, Grant." He pulled back the door to let Grant pass through, but Grant did not step forward, but rather hesitated.

 

"You agree to abide by the terms of parley?"  He asked.

 

Strange blinked. Grant was playing every inch the respectable gentleman envoy, and such it was impossible to tell from his expression now how he felt about it one way or the other, but there was a distinct tension coming off Grant which should in no circumstances should be there while talking to him.

 

"Of course I agree to - Grant, for god's sake." Strange snapped out in harsher tones than he perhaps intended. He pulled the door open a little further.

 

Grant walked through. He leant his flag against the table by the window. It was a hastily made affair of sheet tied to wooden pole, which appeared to have had some useful implement such as a brush attached on the end of it in a former life. He turned to face Strange. Perhaps it was the unflattering light in the gloomy room but he appeared exhausted; he looked Strange up and down. "What on earth have you got on?"

 

Strange looked down at himself, to remind himself what on earth he did have on. Ah, yes. "It is a housecoat", he answered, picking at it. It had become a good deal more bedraggled since he had left Venice and it had not been in the freshest of states even then.

 

"I don't like it very much," said Grant.

 

Strange had meant to answer him, something along the lines of 'no I wouldn't have imagined you would', but was struck by the absurd nonsense of their opening conversation being this, and lost the words in a sudden swell of laughter. Once he started he found he couldn't stop. Everything was so terribly wrong. And yet, here was Grant, insulting his less than immaculate appearance as if he had just come upon him at the Bedford.

 

Grant looked struck. He kept his distance and watched with a mute wariness. Strange attempted to tamp down the laughter, especially before it turned to anything else as it seemed to threaten to do, but found it bubbled up in uncontrollable bursts. He had wanted to be mad, had he not? Well - he looked at Grant's drawn face, the expression with which he watched Strange - here he was.

 

Grant took off his hat and tucked it under his arm. "Merlin", he tried. Strange shook his head.

 

"I am sorry for it. I'm quite alright. I suppose...I suppose I am relieved to see you. Though I agree it is not a very reassuring way of shewing it."

 

"Indeed not." Grant performed an uncomfortable shifting of feet. "I have been sent with terms by His Grace. Will you hear them?"

 

The Duke of Wellington and Colonel Grant have been judged many different things in their time, but one of the most constant observations, be it criticism or praise, is that they were stubborn; that is, were not easily-led men. What could have persuaded them to come and round him up in this fashion? Grant at least did not look happy about it, at least he did not look angered at him.

 

Strange nodded. "I might as well know what I am parleying to."

 

Grant seemed troubled. Nevertheless he delivered his terms in his most military bearing. "His Grace," he started, looking briefly at Strange and then flicking his eyes to somewhere just over Strange's left shoulder. "...requests an immediate cessation of all hostilities forthwith, the relinquishing of all lands you lay claim to..."

 

"...Ashfair?" Strange asked, but was talked over.

 

"...all lands you may lay claim to between Nottingham and the Scottish Borders, in the name of John Uskglass..."

 

The floor gave an unfortunate lurch under his feet.

 

...and a public declaration of His Royal Highness George III as ruler of all the lands of England both South and North. If these terms are met we shall escort you to London to await trial in a manner as befits your rank and station."

 

His mind made a couple of fruitless attempts to make sense of all of this, and when it came skittering to a halt with no reasonable conclusion he turned to Grant. Aware he was giving him an imploring look (indeed he could never quite get a hold of his bearing in the way that Grant often chided him to do), he was alarmed to see that there was a touch of fear around Grant's eyes. Grant appeared to be holding his breath.

 

"I do not understand." He said.

 

Grant let out a sigh edged about with disappointment. "It is over, Merlin. Your army of the dead have returned to their more natural state. Your living followers have fled. It is just you, now. It is best..." He took a step towards Strange, and Strange quite unconsciously took a step back. "...it is best if you give it up."

 

"Give _what_ up." He was letting tinges of alarm creep into his voice, and this in turn made Grant distinctly nervous. He would not have Grant afraid of him. It was, out of everything here, possibly the most intolerable part. He rubbed at his forehead where a headach was developing behind his eyes. He did not quite know if it was natural exhaustion or whether the spell, still tenaciously tethered to him, was taking its due. "Grant, please."

 

He was both frightened to hear about what this Strange had done, and at the same time it was unendurable not knowing.

 

Grant affixed him with a look. "Taking the North in the name of your Raven King - the Government will not have it. They have sent us to quash your revolution." He took another step towards Strange. Strange held his ground. Grant spoke again a little softer. "It is not treason, as far as it has been explained to me. The law is - it is muddy - in this area. The people demand the return of their own king, as is their right. And you as a magician also fall under his dominion I believe. If you agree to the terms and come now, there are solicitors, I believe, who would be willing to represent you."

 

Strange shook his head, he found he did not have much more intelligent to say than "no, I would not have - no." It was too much to believe that he, a version of him at least, had done something like this. He was not Buonaparte, he did not want dominion. He was, by those standards, a fairly easily-pleased man. He, or any version of him, would not have had this within them.

 

Grant stepped forward again. "Merlin, did you hear me, there is still a chance that we may turn this about."

 

Strange looked up at him, as implications of what Grant had just said occurred to him in sudden, odd jolts. "I fought you?" He asked.

 

Grant gave a muted nod. "Rather tenaciously, in fact." His smile had no cheer in it. "It would appear we taught you rather too well." He studied Strange closely for a moment. "And now it appears that the loss of your army has driven away the last of your wits, such as they were. You act as if you are learning all of this for the first time."

 

"I am." Strange attempted to convey the gravity of this statement, to give it a solidity he did not feel. He wished that he was not shaking all over. He suspected the spell. His headach had grown even within the last few moments. He made a gesture in the air, which both lifted the spell and made Grant rear back momentarily. Something of what Grant said to him only now sunk in. "You said that I had an army?"

 

Grant shook his head. "You must remember that. You could not have forgotten something such as that." He was horrified. He searched Strange's face once again. "One does not forget raising an army of the dead, no matter how mad."[2]

 

For what felt like an exceedingly long time he and Grant stood looking at one another, perhaps waiting for the other to break into peals of laughter and announce the whole thing as a practical joke. When both refused to politely do this, and the anxiety in both of them reached almost breaking point, Strange stept forward and reached for Grant, who dodged backwards out of his grip. "Grant you must listen to me. This is not me. You know that this is not me."

 

Grant only looked sorry for it. Strange let out a wordless exclamation of frustration. More growl than recognisable speech. He stalked towards the little mirror on the wall. "Here." He pointed at the inoffensive looking glass. "I came out of here not ten minutes ago. I am afraid I have swapped with your Strange, who you would have surrender. If you wish to fetch him I will gladly help you but you must understand that what you say is not within my capabilities and I would have you _stop flinching away from me._ "

 

Grant slowly shook his head. "No, this is more madness. Merlin you must stop and listen to me, I have only a limited window of time to talk to you in private."

 

He could feel the frustration twisting his face. "Why the devil are you here, then? If you are not willing to listen to me? Wellington could have sent anyone but he sent you. God knows he must know I trust you more than almost anyone alive?" In his desperation perhaps he had said too much, and certainly Grant looked distraught at this. But the time had rather passed for delicacy.

 

"I suspect," Grant appeared to be working around something within his throat, "that His Grace sent me because he believed that our long-standing friendship may afford me your attention - that you were more likely to listen to me. And indeed afford me some protection." Grant glanced out of the window where fat drops of rain were taking clattering swipes at the glass. "He knows how to exploit all of us to our best advantage, does he not." He looked at Strange. "With the exception of you. I've come to believe that he rather underestimated you."

 

"No, we are getting off the point." Strange waved a hand as if he could bat away the distractions. "We must figure out a way in which I can..." He stopt here. In which we could what? He was somewhat stuck for ideas. He had no idea how he had ended up here and how he may leave. The decision was entirely out of his hands. He had hoped... He had always relied on Grant to provide some grounded, common-sense perspective, but he was looking as lost as Strange felt. "Is that why you are here?" He asked Grant. "Because Wellington believed he could exploit our friendship?"

 

"It is why Wellington ordered me to come here." Grant deliberated over the next few words. "It is not why I came."

 

Strange sank into a chair. He was suddenly and extremely tired. He propped his head up, hand on his forehead and elbow on the little table, nudging the silver dish. "And why _did_ you come?"

 

"Do you think that Wellington...that _His Grace_ wanted me here talking to you about solicitors and loopholes in the law? No, sir. He wants your unconditional surrender." Grant pulled up another wooden chair and sat at the other side of the table.

 

"I have often had the thought that we made you what you were, that we - that I in particular - set you upon this course. The Peninsula, Waterloo. We asked you to do magic you did not want to do, that you felt were not befitting a gentleman. At the time I thought you were being priggish." Here he gave Strange a small, sad smile. "I told you many times, did I not, that you were capable of all these things, it was just that you had not found the right _cause_. I persuaded you that..." Here, to Strange's horror, he watched Grant press a hand against his eyes and fall silent.

 

He would have reached out to put a hand on Grant's shoulder then, if he was not sure that Grant would have jolted away from it.

 

Grant started again, hand still over his eyes. "I came here so we could talk, man to man, alone. Because I wanted to apologise to you, and I thought this may be my only chance to do so. I do not know if it means anything. It is truly not enough. But there it is, I have said it." He dragged the hand down over his face, stood, and walked to the other side of the room, facing away from Strange.

 

It would be lying to say that Strange was not at least momentarily perplexed at this revelation. That is, he was until he remembered the conversations that Grant had referred to, that they had often had before or after some piece of impossible - some piece of _unthinkable_ magic was demanded of him by Wellington, and Strange had felt that it was, that it should be, beyond his remit. Hadn't he often said, _this is not the kind of magic I should be doing. I am not persuaded of the rightness of it._ He had always been talked round to it.

 

Grant had a particular way of making things make sense. The end cause was good, so they would be able to tolerate the means if they were not entirely honourable. And so he had been able to live with actions he had always presumed he would not be able to live with.

 

He looked about him. He had been able to live with actions he presumed he would not have been able to live with.

 

Ah, he thought. This is me. All of this, everything that Grant has described, this is me that they are frightened of.

 

His stomach roiled at the sudden surge of memories. If not of what he had done in this particular world, then of what he had done in his own. He remembered the smell of the dead Neapolitans, and the particular feel of a man snapping under the pressure of earth squeezing all about him. He closed his eyes against them but found they were only more vivid in the dark.

 

"I don't suppose that you...Strange?" He could hear Grant walking towards him. The next time he spoke he was in front of him, and must have been crouching on his haunches to look him in the face. "Merlin?"

 

Strange opened his eyes and looked at him. He had decided he was a great deal tired of causing this particular expression on the faces of other men. Especially Grant, whose concern usually signalled that Strange was skirting dangerously close to the edge. All he wished for at that moment was for a Grant that would clap him on the shoulder, look at him with that expression of pride and accord he wore when he had been particularly impressed with some of Strange's magic, to make terrible jokes, suggest a drink; not this terrible hollow version that held his gaze, reflecting back some of the grief that Strange was feeling.

 

"I did this." He told Grant, rather stupidly, but. He could not think of what he ought to say.

 

"Come now." Grant stayed crouched in front of him, but did not reach out, or attempt to touch. "Will you come with me? I believe this is ended."

 

Strange nodded, and they stood, both of them hesitant to start moving, to set off the inevitable next sequence of events. Eventually Grant turned away reached for the flag. "I will have you walk behind me."

 

"Not very safe." Chided Strange.

 

"It is safer for you." Grant cut back, annoyed.

 

Strange shook his head. "You are in no way responsible for my wellbeing Grant, for pity's sake." Grant looked unpersuaded. He shrugged. "You did your job, and I did mine."

 

"And here we are," said Grant, flatly. "Are you ready?"

 

Grant opened the door. The rain was coming down in thick sheets, lashing at the side of the house, bouncing off the cobblestones. The soldiers stood at the end of the road, sodden but immobile, mindless of the deluge.

 

They walked out into it, an immediate sweep of cold that soaked through. The white flag became heavy and formless in the rain, plastering over Grant's hands. Strange walked beside him down the road.

 

Something, then, emerged out of the rain, translucent, but shaped and moving like a man. Strange realised that it was the rain that was shifting, collecting into the form of a person, who walked up the road as if to greet them.

 

Grant stopt, and looked out the side of his eye at this. "Merlin..."

 

"This isn't my doing," he answered, not tearing his eyes away from the figure.

 

"Really? Because it's an exact likeness."

 

With a start he saw that Grant was right, the rain was making a shape of someone who could have been himself, a tall, well-dressed glass figurine of a man. It walked up to Strange. He could hear behind it, at the end of the road, the commotion of infantry reaching for their guns.

 

"DON'T FIRE." Grant called over the din. Then, "Merlin, I suggest you get rid of it."

 

"If I knew what it was, I..." But he had a suspicion. Another Jonathan Strange. _The rain made a door for me._

  
The figure came to a halt a few feet away from him. From here he could see his face sculpted out of trickling rainwater. The expression was all over curious, with a little alarm. Before he knew he was doing so, he had reached out a hand, as did the Strange made of rain.

 

* * *

 

[1] Though Strange could manage a smattering of passable everyday phrases in four languages, he could swear quite competently in seven. He had never quite outgrown the habit of learning all the most unsuitable words first.

 

* * *

 

 

[2] The spell which Strange performed in the Peninsula to bring the dead Neapolitans back to life was only a half-formed thing. Strange only knew of it through the records of the Raven King employing it once upon Henry Barbatus, in order to question him, but Strange was not to know that this was in and of itself a quick and practical shortcut by Uskglass. And Strange, as was his way, made up the rest with guesswork and luck.

Years later, once it became clear that the numbers of Northmen and Northwomen who came to march under the Raven King's banner would not be enough, Strange remembered this spell. After a few attempts he became frustratingly aware of its limitations and set upon finding out the spell's origins, in order that he may build upon it.

He looked further back than John Uskglass. Now that he had access to Mr Norrell's Library at Hurtfew it was merely the work of searching through the older books to find the original spell, which dated back to Merlin. Strange was entirely aware of, if not the humour, then certainly the irony.

The spell in its full form was a much more effective tool.

 


	5. Stone speaks to water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise bitch, i bet you thought you'd seen the last of me, etc. etc.

_Many of the captains and officers about the place said that the magic he had done had been of a very showy sort, and was obviously more intended to draw attention to his own talent and impress the admiralty than save the ship._

 

 

It was raining a great deal, which only went part of the way to explaining how Strange felt soaked right through to the skin; he had a very keen sensation that the rain water had passed _through_ him.

 

Grant was nowhere to be seen, once his vision had returned properly. He tried to espy where exactly he was, but this was waylaid somewhat by being shoved into a brick wall by a small man wearing a drooping wide-brimmed hat, which the rainwater was sloughing off from in small streams, making him look nothing less than an experimental water feature.

 

Strange laughed. He bit down on his fist; he knew if he should start he would be hard pressed to stop.

 

“ _Mad_ ,” said the water feature in disapproval, before disappearing into the rain and the dark.

 

Where he had been previously was in the road, in the way of various horses and carts, market traders, beggars, slum-dwellers, several children in want of shoes and coats and a good deal of street walkers, all making their way in some hurry up and down the street to escape the inclement weather. He recognized it to be Russell Street; though he was still very much disorientated, it was at least preferable to be somewhere he had been before.

 

“Mr Strange!”

 

A door opened to the left of him and a fashionably-dressed head was poking out, hair protected from the rain by a playbill held aloft.

 

“Mr Strange, sir! Come inside! I do not know how you came to be locked out of the theatre, there is a very stupid sort of staff here indeed.” Strange was barely within reaching distance when he was bustled into the building in a whirl of fuss by Christopher Drawlight.

 

Jonathan Strange had not much experience in being back stage of a theatre.1 Still, he presumed, he could not imagine that this was anywhere else. There was a good deal of what could only be described as theatrical detritus all about, which he could only glimpse as he was manhandled, cajoled and in one instance shoved towards a little dressing room somewhere in the warren of corridors behind the stage. In the room there was a small but warm enough fire in the grate; Strange edged towards it while observing Drawlight, or rather this _particular_ Drawlight, warily. He put the facts, as he had them, together, and he asked, “Drury Lane?”

 

It took Drawlight less than a moment to mask the look of incredulity look that passed over his face, for of course they were in Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. “Indeed, sir.” said Drawlight. “I can hardly believe it myself - what an honour it is, to be working alongside you in this auspicious building! To such auspicious audiences!”

 

“Yes,” Strange waved a hand to call him off. “Yes alright.” He covered his eyes for a moment and turned to face the fire. He had, so far, only had to deal with Childermass and Grant. He supposed he had been lucky until now, but still dearly wished that either of them were here instead of Drawlight, whom he could hear working himself into a perfumed frenzy somewhere behind him. At least, he thought, Drawlight did not appear to be very much afraid of him. He had not appeared to have done anything horrific in this version of his life. Yet.

 

“But Mr Strange we must get you dry and into your attire! It is not a quarter of an hour until you are on the stage!”

 

This caught his attention. He turned to face Drawlight “... _No_.” he said with some horror.

 

Another few moments passed where Strange could see the cogs whirring desperately within Drawlight’s head. Drawlight’s hands fluttered a little, gesturing at Strange’s outfit. “You certainly look every inch the wild and romantic magician,” he attempted. “Yes, very windswept, exceedingly atmospheric.” He paused and pressed his steepled hands to his lips. “I fear that Mr Norrell would not be as delighted as, I am _sure_ , the audience would be to gaze upon such a thrilling sight, however - and, indeed, some of the audience I have been lead to believe are a shallow, frivolous lot. You must not think that _I_ disapprove - oh no - nothing could be further from the truth! But in honesty I fear that some of these more vapid, silly spectators will not listen to you unless you are, like them, dressed respectably in the highest fashions.” At this Drawlight sighed wearily and gave him such a grave and sympathetic look that he half suspected that Drawlight had managed to convince himself that he had come up with the idea of how Strange was dressed himself.

 

“There is the reputation of modern English magic to consider.” Drawlight added.

 

Strange had not interrupted. He realized that if he kept silent and simply let Drawlight talk he might gain all the information he needed without ever having to ask a single question. However at the mention of ‘modern English magic’ he could not help himself a snort and a dark look.

 

Something occurred to him then, and he did not think that he could bide his time to know it.

 

“And...will Mrs Strange be in the audience this evening?” His mouth felt all over dry.

 

Again he had to wait for Drawlight to parse through any imagined hidden meaning in this. Eventually Drawlight chuckled. “Ah yes - very good! While the wife is away indeed!”

 

He had an idea of what Drawlight had imagined, though he was quite sure he did not want to know for certain. Instead, he asked. “Mrs Strange is in Shropshire?”

 

“I heard that she was in Cumberland, but I am sure that I am the one who is mistaken.” Drawlight’s obsequious smile, for all its intent, said otherwise.

 

“Find me my scrying dish.” He was slightly abashed to see the other man start at the barked order. He had sounded harsh and sharp in his own ears as well. Once he had paid attentions to how he came across to other people. He wondered who that person had been. “Please, Mr Drawlight.” he added as something of an apology.

 

“Mr Strange, the stage…”

 

“Fetch me something to scry in and in the meantime I shall dress myself.”

 

Drawlight accepted the terms of the agreement, such as they were, and ran away to parts unknown to fetch water and something to hold it within.

 

Strange had no intention of going on stage. Honestly, what had his counterpart been thinking? He enjoyed an audience as much as anyone2 but the idea of turning magic into some kind of frivolous evening’s entertainment smacked much more of Drawlight and Lascelles than it did of Strange and Norrell. He wondered how they had let themselves be talked into it.

 

Still it would attract less attention if he was to change out of his sodden and dirty housecoat and into something less alarming. He did not think that Arabella would want to see him looking so. He turned to the hanging outfit.

 

“Ah.”

 

It was a very handsome and fashionable outfit, to be sure, but perhaps in fabric and style it lacked a little in the virtues of subtlety and good taste. Still, he changed into the green velvet coat, the embroidered waistcoat, the new breeches and hose and the mercifully dry shoes. The fit was very well, which of course it would be, being the clothes of _a_ Jonathan Strange.

 

The mirror that hung on the wall now shewed a head and face in aesthetic warfare with the rest of him. He rubbed his eyes, but only succeeded in making the skin around them even redder.

 

Drawlight returned with a ceramic dish of uncertain provenance, filled with water and balanced carefully in his hands so as not to slop too much of the contents onto the floor. He seemed to bodily relax when he saw that Strange had changed clothes. “Every inch the modern magician, sir!” He cried as Strange wordlessly took the dish out of his hands and set it on the table.

 

He could do this spell almost without breathing a word, so used was he to the form. The room groaned and dimmed, the spell seeming to leech the light and warmth out of the air around it and, he had come to realise, out of him. He mumbled beneath his breath out of habit while he dragged a finger across the surface of the water, quartering it; a light was now spilling out from within the dish, playing strange refracted shapes upon the ceiling.

 

Arabella appeared before him, in the reflection of the water. His breath stopt. She looked utterly - _there_ \- reading by the fireside in the Rectory’s sitting room, her legs pulled up underneath her in a comfortable arm chair and a shawl draped across her shoulders. Her breath caught at one of the tumble of curls hanging across her face, which fluttered in the ebb and flow. She looked unconcerned and perfect and achingly, thrillingly alive.

 

A short, sharp laugh burst out of him.

 

“Lord Magician?”

 

Drawlight’s tone was one of deep discomfort. Strange noted that the tickling down the sides of his face were, in fact, tears, and that he had been weeping quite openly in front of Drawlight, who was now shuffling from foot to foot. He wiped his face with the heel of a palm. “My carriage - I assume that it’s here?”

 

“Sir, I have organized your carriage for after the performance. Of course one must _linger_ for a while after these things - so many of London society who want to see and be _seen_ with the great magician of Soho Square and - indeed…”

 

“I’ll need it now.” Strange fixed Drawlight with a look that the man actually shrank back from. The hands came up again, fluttering and beseeching.

 

“Sir, Lord Magician, you are due on the stage in not five minutes! It is too late to cancel! You must go on! The Earl of Burlington is here in the audience with his two daughters!”

 

“And what do I care of that, sir?” Arabella was in Cumberland, a real, living Arabella which he could look upon and converse with and feel beneath his hands. What was he here for if not for that? Certainly not to perform on the stage like a circus animal. He stamped out of the room with Drawlight - in a state of some distress - in tow.

 

“Mr Strange!”

 

It was perhaps not surprizing that with all of the noise somebody should be roused to check on them. One would assume that the man in question was was a manager, being exceptionally if soberly dressed. This man now stood in the corridor and blocking the way.

 

“My apologies sir, but the stage is in the other direction.”

 

“Is it? How fascinating. I must be leaving.”

 

“Sir you have a full house waiting for you to perform! Are you ill?”

 

“I am to Cumberland to see my wife.” At this Strange attempted to push past, only to be stopt by an arm extended by the man in front of him.

 

A weak, hesitant laugh emanated from Drawlight. “See how he jokes, Sir Douglas!” Strange threw him a look that let him know he was most certainly not joking.

 

“You are only five days into a two week run!” Said the man who was presumably Sir Douglas. “Why, surely Mrs Strange can come back to London to see you if it is all that urgent?”

 

“No - you do not understand - she is not dead and I must...check…” The words died in his throat. He did not know how to explain. He threw a hand up in the air in frustration. “Damn it!”

 

He turned to look at Drawlight behind him, and caught him mouthing a word to Sir Douglas over Strange’s shoulder - it could have been ‘mad’ or it could have been ‘ass’; either would have been fitting.

 

“I shall write to her myself, Mr Strange, whilst you are on stage,” said Sir Douglas, in conciliatory tones. “Consider that it shall certainly cause her a great deal less distress if she were to hear of you wanting to see her, rather than hearing of you abandoning your duties and running off into the night.”

 

“And Mr Norrell and Mr Lascelles would be displeased if they were to hear of it.” Added Drawlight from behind him.

 

“Oh Devil take those two! Why would I care what they think of me? This isn’t even my life!” He turned to face Drawlight fully. “Why am I even _here_?”

 

Drawlight, after a hesitation, recovered admirably; he spread his arms wide. “To perform!”

 

Strange scowled between the two of them. “Is that all you think that magic is? A performance?” He looked at Sir Douglas. “It is not, sir. It is much more than any of us have ever believed. It is - listen - the sky _spoke to me_ …”

 

It was at this point that Drawlight pulled Strange by the coat sleeve and dragged him back to the dressing room.

 

“Sir,” said Drawlight, slamming the dressing room door behind him. “I beseech you. I _implore_ you. Please take to the stage, and after you will be free to do as you wish. I will drive you to Cumberland myself!"3

 

Strange leant his back against the closed door, preventing anyone from leaving, or coming in. “I am not this man.” He said it to himself rather than to Drawlight.

 

But then, he had thought he was not able to kill by magic, to raise the dead, and he found he had it within himself to do so. Why couldn’t he be this as well? A performer? Why could he not walk out there and shew them what magic was. What lay underneath it all? Underneath them? He could make them see.

 

He shook his head, it was not a good idea. He shut his eyes. “Abracadabra.” He laughed.

 

Drawlight was uncharacteristically quiet. He opened his eyes. Drawlight appeared to be hesitating. After spending the last quarter of an hour or so begging and cajoling Strange to go on stage, he almost seemed as if he was going to tell him not to do it. He looked at Strange all over uncertain. In that moment he had no warm feeling for him. None for anyone out in the audience. None for the manager Sir Douglas who had blocked his exit. They would all insist that he stayed and gave them a performance.

 

By god he would give them all a performance.

 

Strange reached for the door handle, and with a squeak of what might have been protest from Drawlight, he slipped out of the room and closed the door behind him.  

 

Sir Douglas was waiting in the hallway. He looked Strange over. “Sir, I hope that now you are ready for this evening’s show.” Strange tried not to laugh in his face. If he laughed the game would be up too soon. He would give this selfish fool every penny of what he paid for.

 

“Sir Douglas,” he said, and smiled. Sir Douglas looked a little taken aback by it, but recovered admirably.

 

“Yes, well, this way.” He led Strange towards the stage.

 

He stept out in front of the audience and for a moment the glare of the footlights blinded him to the people who were sitting behind them. Though, he could hear them, their initial applause dying away as Strange’s eyes darted around to take them all in. He looked startled by them, he was startled by them. The clapping faded and was replaced with the rustle and shifting of hundreds of people waiting in expectation.

 

“I can’t do this,” said Strange, quietly.

 

“ _Speak up_ ,” shouted someone from the stalls, to a scatter of tittering.

 

“My dear ladies and gentlemen,” he ran a hand through his hair as he tried to think of what on earth to say. “I believe you were brought here on false pretences, to see a demonstration on English magic.”

 

Some unhappy muttering had begun from the shifting mass behind the footlights.

 

“I am not currently in the correct frame of mind to be able to oblige. I am sorry for it.” Here the murmurs bloomed into outright discontent.

 

“Magic is not a thing I can just. That is to say - I have gone out of my way to go beyond - and now I don’t think…”

 

An apple, of all things, came sailing past his head, cutting him off mid-sentence.

 

“ _Do some magic!_ ” Cried out a voice from the dark, joined in with a few derisive cheers.

 

“Sir I will not.” The audience, restless now, threw out a few boos and hisses, and most were talking amongst themselves in displeased voices. “It is not something you wish to see.”

 

“ _We bought tickets here to see it you yellow-curtain charlatan!_ ” Shouted out another unseen voice.

 

“Nevertheless..” Strange trailed off, and turned to exit the stage, catching the furious face of Sir Douglas as he did so. At that moment something heavy connected with the back of his head, leaving it dull and ringing, before the sharp jolt of pain followed, along with the sound of the audience cheering. He looked down at the floorboards, where a stone clattered to a stop.

 

He turned about and glowered at the audience, still with cheers on their lips. He could not see them properly. He thought of the gas lamps out in the audience, reached out and felt for them, and with a few murmured words he brought them blazing up so he could see every one of the faces sitting out there, staring at him.

 

He reached down and picked up the stone, held it in his hand. “ _Tree speaks to stone_ ,” he said quietly to himself, then closed his eyes.

 

When he opened them again the room had grown darker. The lamps had stayed lit, but seemed dimmer, as if the light was now coming to them from much further away, across some damp and foggy landscape.

 

He would shew them.

 

He shewed them a woodland; a gray sky filled with rain, aching to drop, and trees reaching up their bare, raw-boned branches to the sky to beckon and plead for it. The earth beneath their feet, dark and sodden and waiting, waiting for everything to come back to it as it must one day do, as had been promised to it. He lost track of where he was; everything had narrowed down to vivid, beating sensation. And in the aching and the pleading and the waiting he lost himself to the sky and the trees and the earth. They crept into him at first, and then rushed in, all in a flood. He was surrounded by birds, their wings were brushing against his body and the cawing of them filled the air until he couldn’t stand it and then he lost himself to the birds, and he was the birds. He looked at the audience through hundreds of eyes. Some of the audience were struggling and beating against the doors, which would not open. Some of them were merely content to stand or sit where they were and scream. Vines wrapped themselves around his legs, they came up and into and through him. He had something in his mouth. He coughed and a vine retched itself out and up, brushing against his face. He could not remember who he was, or who he was meant to be. He had some idea that he had been fractured - splintered across space.

 

It was the shrieking of a woman in the front row which eventually plunged him icily back into the room. The spell broke, almost audibly. There was a moment of shocked silence whilst everybody in the room held their breath. Then this too was broken; a gentleman flung open one of the doors which were now freed, and revealed several members of theatre staff who had been attempting to break down the door from the other side. They were soon swept away on the tide of people spilling out of the theatre.

 

“I am sorry,” said Strange, though exceedingly quietly and nobody was listening to him anyway. The whole thing was like a Hieronymus Bosch scene of hell. He had caused this? He had caused this. Somebody had once called him dangerous, hadn’t they? He couldn’t remember who it was.

 

He turned on weak and shaking legs and walked off the stage.

 

Sir Douglas was waiting for him in the wings with a raised pistol. “You will stop, sir, or I will shoot.” It was not too much difficulty to convince the ropes and the rigging which proliferated backstage to tangle up Sir Douglas and leave him suspended several feet off the ground as he staggered past.

 

By the time he had found a door that led onto Drury Lane he had persuaded his legs into a run, though they seemed so exhausted they were almost numb. A cacophony of noise grew ever closer behind him - he assumed it to be more staff from the theatre, coming to tackle him and take him in for his traumatising of their audience and surely the loss of a few days wages.

 

He burst onto Drury Lane and was swallowed by the crowd flooding out of the theatre. They flocked about him like birds, they - no, no it would not do he had to be present in the moment. It would do nobody good to see him in gaol, not before he had seen Arabella.

 

The crowd swept him along until he was on The Strand. He had some idea of crossing the river and hiding in the warrenous streets of Lambeth, and so skirted round the edge of Somerset House and towards Waterloo Bridge.

 

The lamps struggled to illuminate the deluged evening - the light from them shone off every waterlogged surface in a fractal confusion. His legs were beginning to burn as he ran onto the bridge. The crowd was thinning now, and not many people running here who would cover him, and the tollman would oblige him to stop and pay his way. He felt terribly exposed, and not a small amount like he had made a grievous tactical error - one of many from the evening.

 

Still, he ran on past the tollbooth to the shout of _‘Hoy_!’ from the tollman there (he had not the money to pay the fee anyway) and out onto the bridge along with the few carriages still abroad at this hour. The alarm bell of the tollman clanging behind him, coming through sharp and then muffled by the rain.

 

He was certain that he was still being chased. He would be able to hide from them south of the Thames. He was almost at the other side, more than halfway at least, but he had not entirely counted on anybody blocking his progress across. Several watchmen had heard the bells, picked up by the tollman on the far side of the bridge now, and were headed in his direction. He did not think he could dodge them; he was ragged from magic and running while they were fresh. He turned to come back the way he came, but the staff from the theatre had followed him this far and were now advancing from behind. And thus he was pinned in.

 

Without much thinking of what he would do next, only knowing that forward and backwards were both ruled out so one might as well start to think about _sideways,_  he climbed up onto the balustrade and teetered there for a moment, looking out over the black, rushing water of the Thames below. It really was a very long way down. He didn't think he had fully appreciated before how high above the river Waterloo Bridge came. In considering it, he lost his balance a little, and pinwheeled out his arms to regain footing.

 

The men who were coming at him fore and aft now slowed down, and were walking with deliberate carefulness towards him on his perch. “‘E’s goin ‘a fall.”

 

“No, ‘e’s goin ta _jump_.” Someone corrected.

 

Was he? He looked down again. He hadn’t really thought about it. He wondered if he would even survive it if he did.

  
Something about looking downwards, perhaps merely the suggestion of jumping, tipped his balance, and he found himself once again pinwheeling his arms, to the cries of dismay from the men all around him. It did him not much good. 

His foot slipped. A sickening lurch in his stomach, and then the world was piercing cold wind rushing past him, and a woman’s scream - Arabella’s - _‘JONATHAN’_ \- before the almighty black clap of water.

 

* * *

 

 

1\. [Though he had had considerable experience of the front end, and the audience, and the bar.]↩

2\. [It may be churlish to add here that Jonathan Strange enjoyed an audience a good deal more than most people, but nevertheless it is worth including to throw some light on the actions of his counterpart, as much as our current Strange protested.]↩

3\. [This may have been an exaggeration on Drawlight’s part. Certainly he had no intention of doing it if he could possibly get out of it. ]↩


	6. Leaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the following Tuesday Childermass came to visit; Strange did not even look at him as he entered the little room, but instead sat cross-legged on the floor, in the crook of where his dank bed met the dank wall, his head back on the mattress, looking at the ceiling. 
> 
> “I have heard the Willises have been in to see you.” Childermass started, after having no sign at all that Strange even recognized that he was there.

> _ Trout did another thing which some people might have considered eccentric: he called mirrors  _ leaks _. It amused him to pretend that mirrors were holes between two universes. _
> 
> _ If he saw a child near a mirror, he might wag his finger at a child warningly, and say with great solemnity, “Don’t get too near to that leak. You wouldn’t want to end up in another universe, would you? _
> 
> __ \- Kurt Vonnegut: Breakfast of Champions _ _

 

 

On the following Tuesday Childermass came to visit; Strange did not even look at him as he entered the little room, but instead sat cross-legged on the floor, in the crook of where his dank bed met the dank wall, his head back on the mattress, looking at the ceiling. 

 

“I have heard the Willises have been in to see you.” Childermass started, after having no sign at all that Strange even recognized that he was there. 

 

“They have ideas -” said Strange in a soft rasp, much as if he had not spoken for a day or more. “- about my treatment.” His eyes moved from their fixed stare upon the ceiling to rest on Childermass, and Childermass wished that they had not. The face about the eyes was all over puffy and mottled, the eyes red. “I believe they are still rather sore about the incident at Windsor Castle.” He smiled - a sour, wavering thing. “I probably ought not to have brought it up.”

 

Childermass, as had become his custom, took off his hat and threw it on the bed, then sat on the floor opposite Strange, in order that they should speak without Childermass looming over him. “And what did they do?” He asked it, softly, and for a moment Strange did not answer, and Childermass assumed that he had not heard, but then he said - 

 

“You know, my father was always fond of saying that I had a moral weakness? But then he was not an especially religious man. The Willises though... You tell them you do not particularly believe in a god and that you practice magic...” He shot Childermass a grimace. “Apparently I am a heretic scourge upon England.” After a moment he shrugged. “One does one’s best I suppose.”

 

Childermass held him with a look. “Well then, they're fools.”

 

Strange shook his head. “They are not entirely wrong.” Here, he uncrossed his legs and pulled his knees up to his chest. He was in the straight-waistcoat, as always, so could not wrap his arms around them.

 

“You won’t be in here much longer, I hope,” said Childermass, when it became apparent that Strange had lapsed back into silence. “I think I can get you to Starecross. Wellington is speaking on your behalf this week in Parliament. His word should push out Norrell’s.”

 

Strange looked at him, considering him with sharp eyes through his flushed face. “Or you could bring me a mirror.”

 

Childermass had to laugh. “D’you honestly think they’d let me in five-hundred yards of you with a mirror, of all things? No, sir, it is not possible.”

 

Strange barely blinked. “ _ You _ could do it.”

 

“Nobody could.”

 

“I am not saying it easy, but there is one person, who I believe has the slight of hand and the cunning. Don’t look at me that way, I do not mean it badly. You are the one man in all of England who I would trust to do it.”

 

“And then what?” Childermass raised his eyebrows at Strange. “Ey? Then what? You will be on the run again, an escaped madman, and we will be back where we started with nothing achieved, and I a wanted criminal to boot.”

 

Strange sagged forwards, resting his forehead on his knees. “John, I want to go home.”

 

This was difficult to counter. Where home would be for Strange, now, was a question within itself. Perhaps somebody who was better at offering comfort would have known the right thing to say, but Childermass did not. He reached out a boot and gave Strange a gentle nudge on his leg. “Ey, come on. Ey.” When the other man did not move, he added “Jonathan.”

 

Strange looked up. 

 

“Did you ever run into me again? On your travels? Tell me.”

 

Strange looked at him, appeared to consider it, then drew in a breath -

 

* * *

 

 

\- a low, guttural gasp as he sucked air in, breaking the surface of the river with a splash and tumult. 

 

It had been night, and now it was day. He was somewhere in the country. Bare trees reached black spindle fingers up into a grey sky, and the first, hesitant drops of rain were beginning to fall. He kicked his feet and found that he could just feel the riverbed underneath the tips of his shoes. It was not a very wide river he was in - not very deep. It was not the Thames. 

 

He thrashed his way to the river bank and scrabbled up the side, hands clutching at overhanging grasses and his belly sliding over the mud as he dragged himself out, rolled away from the river’s edge, deeper into the grass. 

 

He was freezing. Soaked through, in the midst of as frigid a December day as any he could remember. Fat drops of water plopped onto his face from somewhere up in the lowering clouds. 

 

_ Shall I rain, magician.  _

 

No thank you, he thought. But it paid no mind. 

 

He stood up, arms wrapped about his middle in an attempt to keep in some warmth that must still be inside of him (though god knows he could not feel it right then), and stumbled into the nearest tree. The bark was clammy and cold underneath his hand. A hawthorn; more through accident than design he managed to ask it, squat and forked and bristly, where he was. The question went from him through its roots and into the earth, where it could feel the shape of the river and the edges of the forest, as far as the hawthorn knew. 

 

Surrey, then.

 

Through the branches, beyond, along the riverbank by five hundred yards or so, was warm orange light cutting through the grey-green gloom of impending dusk. An inn stood by the bank, whitewashed walls and cheery firelight coming from the windows, and a squat, rounded bridge in red brick crossed the river just beside.

 

The wind blew and Strange began shuddering involuntarily, unceasingly. His new velvet jacket was a dark and sodden thing hanging off his frame, and it treacherously absorbed every gust of cold air. He held his arms tighter about himself and trudged towards the inn, his feet raking through long damp grass. 

 

The wall of the inn, facing away from the road, was neatly painted, save where the bare climbing branches made a spindly cage about the leftmost corner, and a black mark between two of the windows on the right hand side. The closer he stumbled, the clearer the edges of the shape came into view, and he was within one hundred yards when he could recognise the familiar outline of the Raven In Flight, which someone had rather sloppily added on top of the fresh paint. Though he was near frozen through, he took a moment outside the inn to approach the  _ graffio  _ raven, left here on the only building near to him for what looked like miles, like a treasure-hunt clue, and he touched gently the paint, which came away sooty black on his fingertips. The rain streaked the paint down the wall, coalescing into one long line, so it looked as if the Raven Volant were mounted upon a stalk. 

 

The wind whistled past to remind him what he was about, that is, that he was in danger of perishing from the cold in the very near future. He rounded the corner of the building in search of a door. 

 

He then came back round the corner and pressed himself up against the wall.

 

He didn’t think he had been seen. 

 

He had seen - and he had to stop short here and check that it wasn’t just the total loss of his senses - he had seen two French officers, two soldiers of the  _ Grande Armée _ , talking amiably with one another whilst walking out of the inn, heading towards the stables. They held their hats against the wind and grumbled, frenchly, against the winter weather.

 

He was in England though. He was certain he...wasn’t he? 

 

He held onto the climbing branches that pressed against his back, dripping water down the back of his collar. Hanging onto one branch he craned his head round the wall to watch the officers’ retreating backs. He observed them keenly, and they stubbornly and resolutely remained French soldiers. He squeezed his grip on the branch and was distracted by the tickling against his hand and wrist. He looked down to find his left hand quite hidden behind a growing, looping coil of bare woody vines, blind branches feeling their way up his arm and underneath his cuff like blind, snuffling animals. He had not meant to do this; he shook his hand, the branches recoiled, reflecting back on him some of his shock, then hardened, slowed, came to rest in unnatural twists and whorls.1

 

The soldiers rode away, across the little bridge and round a bend in the road where they became hidden by trees. Strange looked through the window into the inn, not quite sure what he expected to see. It was filled with ordinary looking folk, farmers and businessmen and country gentlemen, talking in a muffled, fireside way and quite untroubled by the clearly displaced Napoleonic force that had just taken their leave. He could feel the heat from within the building leaking out around the window frame. 

 

He walked into the inn; he could not help himself. He found a seat by the fire and positioned himself as close to the fireplace as he could without singeing his boots and the knees of his breeches. Presently an unpleasant-smelling steam began to rise off him. 

 

A barmaid approached, clearing the table next to him of the empty tankards. “Raining hard, is it?” She asked with a studied casualness. “What can I get for you, sir?”

 

Through chattering teeth Strange made himself heard. “What do you call the river just outside?”

 

“That’s the Wey, sir.”

 

“Well Madam I am afraid that the River Wey has taken all my money. My pockets are quite empty. Or perhaps I lost it all when I was falling into the Thames you see…” He trailed away, attempted a reassuring smile and was met with the uncomfortable face of the barmaid. 

 

“He’ll have to buy a drink if he wants to stay here.” The innkeeper was now leaning over the bar, observing the two of them. 

 

“It is a  _ public house _ , sir.” In truth Strange had never once walked into a public house without then purchasing a drink so he was not very sure of the rules.  

 

“Aye and not an almshouse. You’ll buy something or you’ll be on your way.”

 

Strange sat sullenly and refused to move any further away from the fireplace. The innkeeper attempted a stern stare which would induce him to move.

 

Their impasse was interrupted with a hesitant cough. “Monsieur?” A small, cosmopolitan-looking gentleman at the bar was waving to attract the attention of the innkeeper. The innkeeper turned and exchanged a few words with the small man. Strange found he could not fix his attention upon them. The warmth was beginning to seep through him and making him feel very heavy and stupid. His eyes slid closed involuntarily, having to be wrenched open again and again. 

 

The barmaid set down a tankard on the table next to him. “The gentleman at the bar stood you.” She informed with a cool courtesy. Strange looked up. The small man was observing him, standing some way off. He had a rust-coloured silk waistcoat and short cropped hair, not as young as he had first taken him to be. Something of the air of Segundus about him, which warmed him to the man.

 

“Thank you,” he said, and raised his tankard to the man in way of salute. 

 

The man nodded and smiled. “ Je vous en prie.” 

 

Meaning to make the beer last as long as possible, though the temptation to drain the whole tankard in one was large, Strange rested his head on the back of the chair and for a moment closed his eyes. 

 

“It’s time you were going.” Said a voice, cutting through the darkness and fug. 

 

He woke with a violent start, almost stood out of his seat. He had only just closed his eyes. But, no - upon moving he found he was quite drowsy and stiff, and a small trickle of saliva was making an ungentlemanly progress across his cheek. He blinked, owlishly. 

 

The countryside outside the inn’s windows was quite dark. The Inn was beginning to empty out, and the fire was guttering out in anticipation of last orders. Strange wiped his cheek. 

 

“Your benefactor has gone onwards, and for his sake I let you treat this place like a free hotel. But now we’ll be closing up soon and it’s time for you to be on your way.” The innkeeper was standing over him, hands firmly on hips, the stern look back in place. For a second, he could see the flicker of a candle behind the man’s eye, on the inside of his head. 

 

This in turn made him wonder about the state of the candle inside his own head. Having been in two rivers and deluged by not a small amount of rain, he wondered if it had become damp.

 

Except. He did not have a candle inside his head.

 

He was almost sure of it.

 

“I still have my drink here.” Strange picked it up, and took a small look into it to ensure it hadn’t been tampered with while he was asleep. 

 

“You…”

 

Strange raised a finger, and with the other hand and drained the tankard in a well-practiced sweep. He still held the finger up as he finished the beer, begging for a further moment. Then, finished, he stood with some stiffness, and attempted to adjust his jacket, which was at least now mostly dry. “I thank you sir.” He turned to leave. “And ensure that you thank the other gentleman for me if you see him again.”

 

The innkeeper shrugged. “Don’t thank me; wouldn’t do to go upsetting the French now, would it…”

 

Strange gave him a quizzical look, which was met with a stony expression. If this man had said it in humour it was of an exceedingly dry type. 

 

He turned and made towards the door. At the entrance he stopped. “Which way to the nearest town?”

 

The innkeeper sighed. “Follow the road round to the right and you’ll be in Farnham.”

 

In truth it was twenty minutes along deserted and unlit country path before he saw anything resembling the edge of a town. He knew of a spell that, when cast, gave the caster sure footing in the dark, and he tried to remember the form of it.2 There was not even the light of the moon or stars to go by, the rain still spattered onto him, with great drips falling from the tree branches in an unsteady rhythm. 

 

Over all of this, he was certain that he could hear something; a faint, scratching noise. Of course, it could just be an animal, but what animal would be out on a night like tonight? The further he walked the surer he was that the noise, the scratching, the malevolent skittering in the pitch dark off of the path, was following him. Out of sight but watching. He did not know what it wanted, he did not know why it watched him, but he was certain, he could feel it now. 

 

He picked up his pace, walking faster and faster until he was almost in a trot, then, at the sight of light coming from a window further down the path, he sensed it almost down the back of his neck and he broke into a run. 

 

He kept it barely behind him, and he was running at breakneck speed now. Surely at some point it would overtake him and overwhelm him. It would - 

 

Something came out of the darkness from the side, and it grabbed him. 

 

He would have screamed but something was covering his mouth; an arm was wrapped about him from behind, pinning his arms down. 

 

“Shut up.”

 

Childermass. 

 

“Are you  _ trying  _ to attract attention towards yourself?” He had dragged Strange off the path and down a coach yard, where he let go of him. 

 

“ _ Why were you following me? _ ”

 

“I was not. You came haring out of the dark like your arse was on fire, but nowt followed. I have been waiting for you here for the best part of an hour, I was about to give up on you.”

 

“I was being…” He stopped and strained his ears. He could hear nothing but the two of them, breathing heavily in the dark. The scratching noise had gone. They were quite alone.

 

“You were being what?”

 

Strange didn’t answer. Another lingering effect from the tincture of madness perhaps. It made the most sense, in fact it made the most sensible explanation of everything that had happened since Venice. 

 

“Why are there French soldiers here?” He asked Childermass. 

 

Childermass sniffed, his face an outline in the shadow. “I didn’t count on them being stationed here, but it is no matter, we can still go ahead as we planned.”

 

“No,” Strange stopt him. “Why are there French soldiers in  _ England _ ?”

 

There were a few moments of unreadable silence in the dark. 

 

“Because we lost, Mr Strange. We are invaded.”

 

* * *

 

Strange could cast a spell for sure footing in the dark, but Childermass seemed to have found a way to see through the night like a cat. He had a hold of Strange’s arm above the elbow and was leading him round the edge of the town, always keeping them within shadow. 

 

“Almost time for rendezvous.” Said Childermass. 

 

With who? Thought Strange. “Are we late?” He asked. 

 

“Hopefully he’d give us at least ten minutes grace.” They were in a field or a common now, walking up a steep hill, Childermass still dragging him by the arm like a recalcitrant child. Above them there was the small pinprick of light, from what must have been a single lantern, swaying in the dark. 

 

“Who goes there?” Called the voice, presumably belonging to whoever was holding the lantern. 

 

“The land is all too shallow.” Said Childermass, which was a very obscure reply indeed.

 

“It is painted on the sky…” Answered the other voice. It was one of the odder things he had heard Colonel Colquhoun Grant say. He raised his lantern, and the three of their illuminated faces blinked in the sudden light. 

  
“And you must be Mr Strange,” Said Grant, examining him.

 

* * *

 

Footnotes 

1\. If he had had the time Strange would have probably reflected on the nature of magic and madness, of how much magic resided somewhere between conscious and subconscious thought, and how if anyone had ever had too much of a good thing it was probably him, now, with this. When he had ample leisure, in the future, to sit quietly and think of such things he would reflect back on this moment and be troubled by it. ↩

2.The studious reader may be interested to note that this was Martin Pale’s _Leves Tenebras_ which Jonathan Strange was struggling to recall.↩


End file.
